


Legacies

by achievingelysium



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alfor and Zarkon are best buds, Ambiguous Relationships, Backstory AU, Gen, M/M, Pre-s3, VLD Fanfiction Remix 2017, the tragedy that is king alfor, until they're not, yeah there's romance but there's also quite a good dose of friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievingelysium/pseuds/achievingelysium
Summary: On the edge of the crater, Alfor stands with Zarkon. He can see glory a lion will bring, can taste the blood of battle, bitter on his tongue. In his hands—in their hands—rests a universe ripe for the taking.There is no room for fear, he thinks. And between him and Zarkon, there is none.The story of a king told in eight parts.





	Legacies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spinsters_grave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsters_grave/gifts).
  * Inspired by [One Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520079) by [spinsters_grave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsters_grave/pseuds/spinsters_grave). 



> hey welcome to a backstory au w lots of fun !!!! really enjoyed writing this and ofc check out the original work by mac!

_King_ is a heavy title, but Alfor bears it well.

It’s one he takes on with no hesitation. He is born to be one—it’s written in the stars—and so a king Alfor is.

He dismisses Coran and listens for the sound of the door shutting before he crosses over to the tall mirror on the wall. On the table, Coran’s left his crown and cape.

Alfor fastens the cape first, a deep blue the color of water. The colors seem to shift in shadow. Then he fits his crown on his head, considering himself in the mirror for a moment.

“You are a king,” he tells his reflection. His eyes bore back into him, and Alfor smiles.

The party has only just begun when Alfor sweeps in. Still, he’s the last royal to arrive; the other four stand as he takes slow, measured steps, each one the epitome of regality.

“Ah, Alfor,” Zarkon says. He extends a hand, and Alfor grips it, grinning.

Zarkon doesn’t smile back — no, the Galra never show much emotion, but there’s a pleased look in his eye.

“Zarkon,” he replies. “You are too kind. Three quintants, and still we are feasting like the kings we are.”

“Indeed,” the High Priestess says. “Truly, I thank you.”

“I do not want to be an ungracious host,” Zarkon says smoothly. He gestures at the table filled with dish after dish of delicacies, and Alfor takes his seat to Zarkon’s right.

Halfway through dinner, there’s an unsettled murmuring of their guests. When Alfor looks up, he catches the tail end of a meteor, sparking bright as it tears through the atmosphere.

He sets down his fork as blue flame bursts across the sky. Alfor can feel it calling to him — there is something different about this night.

“We should go see where it lands,” he suggests, not worried about overstepping his boundaries as he puts a hand on Zarkon’s arm. Alfor smiles brightly at him. “The universe is calling for us.”

Across the table, the High Priestess of Qataar nods.

“I, too, hear its call,” she says, voice low.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Lwain's king says.

Zarkon rises from the head of the table, and the entire hall goes silent.

"Then you do not have to go," he says, his voice carrying a sense of finality. Alfor stands with him, and so does the High Priestess.

"Come," Zarkon says, beckoning, so they follow.

They take a small but spacious pod, the ship silent as it glides over the land. Alfor keeps his eyes trained on the meteor, watching it draw closer and closer.

When it hits the ground, the entire world shakes. They stop for a moment; his ears are ringing, and his bones feel rattled. But there is an energy in the air he cannot ignore.

"Quickly," he says, and Zarkon straightens in his seat. "We have to see it."

The three of them stand together around the meteor. It’s enormous, easily the size of Alfor’s ballroom. And more than anything, Alfor finds it beautiful — black as ink, and dotted with gold flecks like the stars in the night sky.

“We need to do something about this,” Zarkon says. “I cannot have this on my planet without touching it.”

Alfor steps forward and runs his fingers over the surface. It thrums with potential, and in his mind, he thinks he hears a lion’s roar.

He turns to Zarkon.

“We should make it into a lion.”

“I beg your pardon,” the High Priestess interrupts. “A lion? And how do you propose to do that? I have seen your lions — they are not nearly the size of this rock. And what would be the purpose of said lion?”

But one look at Zarkon reveals that they share the same thoughts.

“It will be a war machine,” Zarkon says. “Capable of destroying planets.”

Capable, he thinks, of bringing the universe to its knees. Capable of harnessing his beloved stars themselves. Capable of war, yes, but also of peace.

“Indeed,” is his only response.

On the edge of the crater, Alfor stands with Zarkon. He can see glory a lion will bring, can taste the blood of battle, bitter on his tongue. In his hands—in their hands—rests a universe ripe for the taking.

The High Priestess takes a step back, fear lining her movements.

There is no room for fear, he thinks. And between him and Zarkon, there is none.

ii.

The Meteor Lion is Altea’s most beautiful creation. Black and silver, with glints of red. Alfor even crowns him in gold, shaping it until it is a Lion fit for a king.

“Soon,” he promises Zarkon.

When the time comes, Alfor steps forward, followed by a set of his trusted friends. Coran hovers anxiously, but stays back in the distance as Alfor calls for the process to begin.

They fill the Lion with quintessence, and Alfor spirals into his magic. He is in his body yet not; energy pulses beneath his hands, and after a moment, he begins to think it sounds like a heartbeat.

He and his people stumble backwards, and Coran rushes to him, gripping his arm.

“Alright?”

Alfor doesn’t answer, staring hungrily up at the Lion, waiting for his creation to come to life. The entire world seems to hold its breath. Far away, from a castle balcony, he knows Zarkon is waiting, too.

And then the Lion raises to his feet and lets out a roar that tears through him. Alfor falls to his knees, victory ringing in his ears.

After a few moments, Zarkon is there, too, kneeling with him. Alfor raises his eyes to his friend.

“The Meteor Lion will bond with a pilot who is a strong leader and whose people will follow without question,” he whispers. “It’s so no one else can pilot it but you, Zarkon.”

 _Yes, yes,_ the stars sing. _Zarkon, pilot of the Black One, emperor. History calls for you._

It is the first time Alfor sees Zarkon smile.

“Thank you, Alfor,” he says. “I am in your debt.”

Four other meteors follow the first, as if it is a chain reaction that starts with the black one. The second one falls to Altea, the third to Qataar, the fourth to Olkari, and the last to Lwain.

Alfor is travelling when he hears the news and orders his ship to turn. Not home, to Altea—but instead to Galra.

“If that’s not a sign from Divinity, I don’t know what is,” he says excitedly, pressing forward. “Five meteors, each landing on the most influential planets of our generation. Five meteors—we can create a super-weapon, five Lions to form one.”

“We’ve got a theme going with the Meteor Lion,” the Qataaran High Priestess said. “Can we even still call it that? They’d all be meteor lions. Anyway, the— Galra Lion, it’s got leadership qualities— Alfor, could you use your divine powers to give the other meteor lions traits for the ultimate super soldier? There are five. It can’t be too difficult. And they’d need to work in tandem, too.” She trailed off. “There is so much to think about in this situation. It is unprecedented in all of our histories.”

“Indeed,” the Olkari representative said. “I propose calling them different colors for simplicity. Ours shall be the Green lion, for the mighty forest we found its meteor in. I believe they all should have unique powers, such as land, and forest, and fire. So on.”

Zarkon rubbed his hands together.

“The pilots should be able to defend themselves, in case their Lions fall.”

Alfor gritted his teeth. The Lions were to be infallible, and as one, they would reach levels the universe had never seen before. There was no need.

“Alfor, you should be able to make weapons that echo our souls, right?”

“That’s your expertise, not mine,” he says finally. “And the Lions won’t fall.”

The High Priestess stares at the sky.

“We’ll call it Voltron,” she announces decisively. “After the angel.”

Voltron, harbringer of death — but also protector of those who were brave enough to ask. A fitting name.

“Voltron,” he says, lifting his face to the sky. “Voltron.”

iii.

Later finds him and Zarkon alone on the balcony, staring at the stars.

“There’s so much hanging on this,” he says. “Imagine, Zarkon. A universe united in peace that we will create.”

He can see it. Blood may stain his hands, but in the end, the universe will be at peace.

“It’s beautiful,” he finishes.

Zarkon’s eyes gleam with his vision. He doesn’t respond to Alfor, instead deep in thought. He’s a dreamer, too—both of them are.

“I’ll make the weapons,” he says. “And once the Lions are completed, we’ll form Voltron—head, arms, and legs.”

Alfor raises his eyebrows but smiles. “And who’ll be the torso?”

Zarkon shrugs.

“The same person who’s the head, I guess. Which planets will be which parts, do you think?”

He leans against the railing, considering it for a moment.

There is a part of him that hungers to be the leader, but he knows that even as a king, he cannot be the head. No—

“You’re the first, and you will be the intellectual and leader of Voltron. So you should be the head at the seat of power,” Alfor says.

Zarkon is far better than him; he carries a drive and determination that Alfor trusts will lead them far.

“I’ll be your right hand man, the arm. Olkari will be the left, and the other two will be the legs.”

“You should be fire,” Zarkon muses. “Bright and burning, like you. Instinct, gut feelings—soldiers need that. And you’ll be red, and Qataar will be blue, like water, fluid and faithful. A leg. Lwain, too—they’ll be the support.”

Alfor sees brightness burning in Zarkon’s eyes, and he realizes that he will follow him anywhere.

“And you?” he says softly.

Zarkon turns to him. The dim light spilling from the room casts half his face in shadow, but Alfor chooses to study the brightness.

“I’ll be the sky,” Zarkon says after a moment. He doesn’t seem to realize it, but his voice, too, has gone soft. “Black — for sky and space and its endlessness.”

They have been kings and brothers for a long time, but suddenly, in this moment, Alfor wants more.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing burning words on his tongue. “We’ll defend the universe.”

Zarkon only stares out at his home, silence resounding as his answer.

iv.

The first time they form Voltron, Alfor’s mouth fills with the taste of blood, coppery and strange. Then he laughs, because they’ve done it; they’ve finally, _finally_ done it.

And it’s not just him. It’s all of them—a team.

No secrets. No hidden agendas. Only trust and family.

Suddenly their bond extends deeper than any of them expect it to. Suddenly they are all one, and Alfor’s thoughts aren’t his own.

A lingering thought from their Blue Paladin, Cellie, catches on a snag in his mind and doesn’t let go.

Alfor snaps back into his mind as Voltron drifts apart again. The others are celebrating, laughter faint through the comms, but he’s left with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Cellie is in love with Zarkon.

He thinks of his nights spent together with Zarkon, pinning his heart to his sleeve and waiting to be noticed. And as it turns out, he is not the only one.

Alfor does the only thing he can.

He copies the Galra and buries his feelings until they become the ghost of a dream. He watches Zarkon fall in love. Watches the way his eyes go soft, listens to him when he speaks about his girl like she’s the only other person in the universe.

Zarkon’s not blinded by love, of course. He still hungers for more, but the sharpness that comes with him is soothed by Cellie’s waters.

Alfor settles.

Marries childhood friend Alladosia—and when she confesses to him that she only loves him as a friend, Alfor presses his lips to her forehead and closes his eyes.

Still, they provide Altea with an heir. Allura is a brilliant star in the midst of darkness. She awakens in him a father and a sense of wonder at how the entire universe has managed to manifest in such a small thing.

“Would you like to hold her?” Alladosia asks, bouncing Allura in her arms. Zarkon hesitates, but then he gently takes Allura in his huge hands, scooping her up and treating her like she is a piece of glass to be broken at any second.

“She’s beautiful,” Zarkon says, and his eyes are bright as he peers at Allura. His voice is warm and full, and Alfor feels something in him twist. She should be _their_ child.

Alladosia lays a hand on his arm, her eyes dark.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs to her as they step back slightly, keeping Allura in sight but moving out of earshot. He touches her face. “You are— dear to me.”

“As are you to me,” Alladosia says, “which is why you need to let go. Loving him hurts you.”

Alfor turns his face to the ground, bitter. Distantly, he hears Allura gurgling with laughter.

“I know,” he says. “I just— can’t.”

 

Alladosia leaves a gaping crater in Alfor that begs to be filled.

Only a month has passed since _she_ has passed, yet Alfor feels like he’s been in some sort of dream. He locks himself up most days, finding solace in Allura. He pleads with the universe to bring her back, to give him someone who will love him and stand by his side.

The universe answers.

Not with his wife, but in Zarkon, his hand on Alfor’s shoulder as he leads him back to his chambers.

“I’m sorry,” Zarkon says when they reach the doors. “I know what she meant to you.”

There is grief lodged in his throat. Alfor blinks back his tears, trying not to think of the pink shroud Alladosia had been burned in. The smell of smoke still clings to his clothes, and suddenly he is desperate to get rid of them.

“Alfor?” Zarkon says when he is silent.

He is not quite in his right mind, he realizes. But he needs—he needs someone to piece him together, needs to forget his grief and his aching loneliness, so Alfor shuts the doors behind Zarkon and watches the room go dark.

Then he kisses Zarkon, desperate and numb.

“Alfor,” Zarkon says.

“Please, Zarkon,” he whispers.

Zarkon drops to his knees, eyes dark as he looks up at Alfor. He looks like he’s praying at the feet of a temple when he rests a hand on Alfor’s knee, hesitating.

“No secrets between Voltron,” Zarkon murmurs, repeating Alfor’s old words.

“This one will be fine,” Alfor says.

 

Things change.

It’s inevitable, of course. Alfor drifts in and out of reality, caught in between his emotions and his duty as a king and paladin of Voltron. There is no rest for him—always more meetings and fights and not a moment alone.

He’s not doing well, he knows.

When the others ask him to stop piloting the Red Lion, the fog that has seeped into his mind disappears.

“I’ll be better,” he promises, and his voice is desperate as he stares at Zarkon. Leader, he calls him most days. Lover, if he feels brave enough. “I _will_.”

“Very well,” Zarkon says, “but if this is a problem again, I do not want you _near_ the Red Lion. Understood?”

Losing the Red Lion is losing a friend. Losing the Red Lion is losing a family. Losing the Red Lion is— is losing Zarkon.

“Understood,” Alfor whispers.

The two of them are different people now, but still their paths converge.

“Thank you, Zarkon,” Alfor says when they stop outside Zarkon’s quarters.

Zarkon opens the doors. “It’s what friends do.”

 

vii.

Footsteps pound through the hall.

“Alfor!”

He stops, and Coran grabs his shoulder as he pants.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Not a moment later, the alarms begin to ring. He turns in a circle, his first thought of Allura, his second of Zarkon.

“Alfor,” Coran says. “He’s gone.”

“Who?”

Coran grips his shoulder tighter. “ _Zarkon_.”

The alarms continue to blare, but they fade away. Alfor rocks back and forth on his feet for a moment, unsteady, before it sinks in.

“I don’t understand,” he says, mind racing. “What… what do you mean?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have listened to him,” Coran says frantically. “I knew we couldn’t trust him. I knew, I knew… and the look on his face, oh, I’m such a fool—”

“Your Majesty!” someone interrupts, racing down the hall. “A Burn Worm… outside the Castle…”

Alfor feels his face drain of color and warmth. Burn Worms are deadly creatures of destruction, and to have one here on Altea, where their grasses are plentiful and now burning—

“Prepare the Castle defenses,” he snaps. “And evacuate the people. I’ll send for Voltron.”

Coran catches his arm again. “Alfor, you aren’t listening to me.”

Alfor whirls, thinking of his people, screaming, _burning_ —

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. His voice is loud to his ears, and in it he hears denial of the one fact he has been sure of, perhaps, since the beginning.

“ _It doesn’t matter_!” he bellows, like he’s trying to prove something. Desperate.

“Alfor,” Coran says, and his voice is soft this time. His eyes are warm.

“My friend,” Alfor says, and he hears his voice strain and crack. “Do what you must. I will see you… I will see you on the other side.”

Coran studies him for a moment and then bows.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says before turning and sprinting down the hall. Alfor stares at his retreating back and wonders how many friends he will lose today.

 

viii.

His kingdom is breaking at the seams.

Alfor hasn’t slept in… a while, he thinks. He’s not sure. His people live, but they live in fear of what Zarkon— _emperor_ , as he calls himself these days—will do. He’s already sent many of them off-planet, shuttled to Altea’s allies.

“Are you sure, Alfor?” Coran says in the quiet moments. He’s binding a wire around Alfor’s wrist; there are already many attached to his head and along his chest.

It feels like there’s a storm waiting.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Coran nods.

The process doesn’t take very long. It’s simple and painless. He blinks, and then it’s over. All of his memories, everything he is, stored here on the holodeck.

“You will not tell Allura about this,” Alfor instructs as they unattach all the wires from his body. “Not until the time is right.”

“Surely—”

“No,” he says sharply. “She will know.”

Coran worries at his lip. “Know what?”

Alfor fixes his cloak as he stalks towards the doorway. There is no time to spare—Zarkon will be here soon, and Alfor must face him.

“I will not see her again,” he says, and the words are the most painful ones he’s ever spoken. “Coran, I— I want both of you in cyrosleep.”

Coran wrenches his shoulder back, and they stare at each other. “No.”

“You must,” Alfor begs, letting his walls crumble. “It is the only way. If Allura lives, so does Altea—today and tomorrow and years from now. And she is going to need someone by her side.”

His eyes burn, and Alfor turns his face away.

“It will not be me,” he chokes out, “but I know you love her as much as I do, and you will protect her with your life. And—”

Alfor touches Coran’s shoulder. “I want you to live,” he whispers. “You have been… you have been a dear friend to me, Coran. I am sorry I never told you, and that I did not appreciate you enough. You have always been here.”

Coran’s lips are pressed together and trembling, but he nods.

Alfor draws his sword and looks into it.

A tired man stares back at him.

“Tell her I love her,” he says, “and that I… I will see her soon.”

He has no words left to say. Alfor has lost in terrible ways: the screams of the dying haunt his dreams, his planet is almost decimated, and Zarkon rules an empire now.

But he has also won. The Lions are locked away, hidden safely. His daughter and best friend are safe.

The universe will find a way to rise up. It always does. All Alfor needs to do is give them a fighting chance.

Coran stares into his face. He has nothing left to say, either—they have spoken all the words they need to, and the ones left unspoken Alfor carries in his breast.

So Coran presses his fingers to his lips and then bows.

“Coran,” Alfor says.

“King Alfor,” he replies. When Coran leaves, he will be carrying hope in his arms.

They are the last words they will ever say to each other.

The crown the king keeps, but the emperor takes his throne.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed it yooo please leave a comment if u liked it if u like


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